


The Search for the Missing Sister

by Natasja



Series: The Enola Holmes Adventures [1]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Enola appreciates this, Enola isn't that much better, F/M, Family Issues, John Watson is a Saint, Mary is amused, Multi, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Viscount Tewksbury is a troll, and a terrible influence on Sherlock's baby sister, he's just really bad at them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26857195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasja/pseuds/Natasja
Summary: Getting Mycroft to transfer guardianship of their teenage sister to Sherlock had been easy.It was everything else that was proving somewhat harder.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury, Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson
Series: The Enola Holmes Adventures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007148
Comments: 86
Kudos: 641





	1. Thwarted

**Author's Note:**

> There was a meme on the AO3 Facebook page, and it gave me ideas.  
> Also, Enola Holmes is an amazing movie and if you haven't watched it yet, you should.

Getting Mycroft to transfer guardianship of their teenage sister to Sherlock had been easy.

It was everything else that was proving somewhat harder.

* * *

Mycroft had been all too willing to wash his hands of her, ever mindful of his image and position as lynchpin of the British Government. Sherlock wasn’t a fan of small children, unless you counted the urchins he paid to keep him upraised of happenings in low places, and both of them were equally lost in how to handle a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Still, shuffling her off to a boarding school had been a mistake, and a costly one.

Miss Harrison’s school had the reputation of churning out bland copies of every reason Sherlock despised socialising with the fairer sex in general. A girl with Enola’s spirit, even if she hadn’t been raised exclusively by their eccentric and formidible mother, would have hated any place that tried to crush her spirit in such a way.

Sherlock had expected Enola to react like the teenage daughters that Mycroft’s friends complained about; sulk and throw a tantrum and forget about it after being given something they wanted. Enola had been angry and a little petulant, but all was not forgiven after Sherlock had treated her like a detective to advise. Much like Mother, she’d vanished off the face of the earth, although unlike Mother, she left the occasional clue to let Sherlock know she was alive and probably in acceptable condition.

But Sherlock still hadn’t seen his sister in the flesh since he left her at Miss Harrison’s Finishing School.

He’d thought she’d be grateful for the visit, but she’d resented his part in putting her there, and assumed that he’d only come to extract information, and not 24 hours after he left Enola had vanished into thin air. This was why Sherlock didn’t socialise! If you cared about people then you started being concerned for them, and in no time at all you were keeping yourself up at night thinking about all the horrible things that could befall a sheltered sixteen year old on her own in London!

And then you started thinking about mistakes, and what you could have done differently, and constantly second-guessing himself was not a pass-time that Sherlock Holmes enjoyed.

Folding the paper, Sherlock finished his brandy and left the club, returning to Baker Street. He needed advice, and there was only one person that Sherlock trusted for answers.

* * *

Dodging Mrs Hudson was an art-form, one of many that Sherlock had perfected. The sound of a kettle boiling came from inside, indicating that at least one of his two co-inhabitants was home.

That didn’t make the prospect of having to admit to his imperfections any easier. Sherlock hung up his greatcoat and walking stick. “Still no luck.”

John Watson, with the dual benefits of sisters rather closer to his own age, but also rather less intelligent and resourceful than Enola, merely ruffled his newspaper, managing to convey the tone of “I told you so” without saying a word. Sherlock sighed. “Just say it, Watson.”

Watson lowered the paper. “You broke her trust, Holmes. You and Mycroft both. Declaring that you did it because you care about her and dropping a few bits of advice isn’t going to just fix that.”

Sherlock was careful not to sigh, fetching the kettle off the stove as it started to whistle. He fixed a cup for Watson, as well, and after a moment’s thought, poured the last of the water into Mary’s coffee pot. Watson’s wife, daughter of a British father and East Indian mother, had a number of strong opinions about tea, and wasn’t shy about voicing them, though she allowed the men in her life their indulgences. It was possibly the main reason why Watson was so attracted to her.

Setting the teacup down at Watson’s elbow, and settling into his own chair, Sherlock thought over his options. “You know me, Watson. I’m not practiced at,” he gestured vaguely, “people… emotions… that sort of thing.”

Watson knew that first-hand: he’d spent weeks dropping the subtle hints common to men attracted to other men, and it hadn’t been until he had to explain how normal people managed emotions on a case that the doctor realised a more straightforward approach might be necessary. That had been… rather an experience.

Perhaps Sherlock should have brought Watson and Mary with him when he and Mycroft went to fetch Enola; they might have had more success in reaching her. Watson took a thoughtful sip of his tea as the door opened. “You remember the first rule, Holmes: people are not toys. You can’t pick them up and put them away at your convenience.”

Sherlock grimaced slightly. Yes, Enola had made that clear, too. As had the formidable Edith Greyson, and Mrs Lane, the housekeeper. Not to mention two different Stationmasters, who both demanded to know what his sister was fleeing, to go to such lengths to escape her home (Sherlock had appreciated that insinuation even less than the others) and refused to speak to him further. Even mother, whose entire plan for Enola hinged on Sherlock not bothering to look for his little sister when Mystery beckoned, hadn’t expected him to prioritise a person over a case.

The door closed again, and a lightly-accented voice joined the chorus. “No sign of young Enola, then?”

Mary greeted Watson with a kiss and Sherlock with an arch look, her thick blonde hair a marked contrast to her brown skin. She’d been helpful in explaining Enola’s possible motivations, but rather less so with suggestions of the places a young woman on her own might go to ground. Some nonsense about female solidarity and how it was good for Sherlock to actually work for the answers sometimes.

Sherlock had no idea what she could mean by that, honestly.

He got up to pour her a cup of coffee, “No. I suspect that Viscount Tewksbury’s ignorance is by design, but he’s become very good at avoiding me.”

There was a touch of concern in his posture when he spoke of the conditions in the slums, where Lestrade had found Enola the first time. Rumour had it that he was courting a young country lady, though that could be a ploy to avoid being swamped by every eligible woman in London. He was intelligent enough to be aware that Sherlock didn’t need a confession to deduce what he wanted to know, and the value of ignorance.

Watson and Mary exchanged amused looks. “You mean he isn’t intimidated by your reputation, and knows that you have to listen to Mycroft complain at length every time he sees you talking to the young Lord?”

Young Tewksbury had also become very good at pitching his voice to catch Mycroft’s attention whenever he spotted Sherlock coming his way. No wonder Enola was fond of him. He wasn’t lying about not knowing where she was, but they had to be in contact somehow.

There was no one else who could have schooled him so well on how to frustrate both of Enola’s brothers quite so effectively.

Sherlock employed the time-honoured diplomatic tactic of saying nothing. Mary laughed, and Sherlock very nearly with-held her coffee, before thinking better of it. The former Miss Morston had known something about defence before her father went missing, and she’d been visiting Miss Greyson’s tea shop ever since Sherlock had made the fatal error of complaining about the woman to Watson within her hearing.

Mary wasn’t an unappealing woman, in a purely aesthetic fashion, and her sharp mind and quick wit was certainly something to appreciate. He’d appreciated the same traits in Irene Adler, during their brief acquaintance, and it had been just as vexing in the thief as it was in his boyfriend’s wife. “Regrettably.”

Watson stifled a smirk. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that there’s a message for you in the personels.”

He handed over the newspaper. Sherlock, in a frustrated effort to either provoke Enola into shouting at him in person, or at least confirm whatever was going on with Tewksbury, had left an advertisement to May Beatrice Posy: “How is your boyfriend?”

Reading the reply, he resisted the urge to swear. Mary had opinions on foul language, too. “To Shirley: How’s yours? My compliments to his wife.”

Someone had been teaching Enola how to couch a veiled threat, and Sherlock was fairly certain that it hadn’t been him. He would never have threatened Mary and Watson’s reputations in such a fashion. Come to think of it, Sherlock almost hoped that Enola didn’t fully realise what she had implied in her rebuttal. Pray let it have come from one of those dreadful romance novels at Miss Harrisons…

It was a good disguise; anyone who didn’t know the details would see it as two women being catty, uninteresting except for the potential scandal. Lestrade, who did know the details, and was still far too amused about Enola beating Sherlock to the punch on the Tewksbury case, was going to be _insufferable_.


	2. Lady Tewksbury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Tewksbury was a dead end, but Sherlock had never met a society women who didn't talk about her children as though they were the only subject that existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I was not expecting this kind of response!  
> Have another chapter, and if there's anything you'd specifically like to see, let me know in the comments!

Sherlock spared an afternoon to compose a return message in the paper, _“To MBP: His name is John, a former army medic. Kind and compassionate. I think you’d like him.”_ , then got back to business.

Young Lord Tewksbury being a dead end, Sherlock decided on a more circumspect route. He was acquainted with Lady Caroline Tewksbury, Dowager Marchioness of Basilweather, from when she requested his help to find her son. She hadn’t been pleased with him when he turned her down, citing preoccupation with another case (that of his absent mother), but Sherlock had yet to encounter a society woman who wouldn’t talk about her children until the world ended.

Not being a budding politician, perhaps she would let something slip.

* * *

Lady Caroline greeted him coolly but politely when Sherlock was led into a well-appointed sitting room.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries, before Sherlock manuvered the conversation around to fact-finding. “Forgive my departure from convention, but I was glad to hear that my… assistant was able to find your son during my unavailability.”

Lady Tewksbury sniffed haughtily, but allowed it. “Yes. She was reluctant to take the reward money on top of the detective fee, due to their acquaintance, but I insisted. I couldn’t bear to think of her forced to return to that slum, likely with all her clothes and possessions stolen, after her wretched brother took the money her mother left her.”

Enola had been in a _slum_? Lestrade had been tight-lipped about Enola’s apprehension - likely more to do with the bruising on his temple than any sense of delicacy - and told Sherlock to ask his brother. Mycroft had mentioned a place not fit to live in, but he held that opinion of anything short of an Oxford Street townhouse. Even with the necessity of a new wardrobe, Enola could have afforded a decent boardinghouse room!

Lady Tewksbury’s face was placid, but her eyes were cold; she had chosen her words very deliberately. Sherlock managed not to wince. He shouldn’t have mentioned that to Mycroft, not with Mother having left the money as a secret, rather than formalised as a dowery or inheritance. Especially not with Mycroft still so angry about the non-existent expenses he’d been paying for the last decade. That was going to add a whole new dimension to his nightmares; thinking of what a penniless Enola might have been forced into in exchange for food and a place to sleep.

_(Mary had put a man in hospital for attempting to assault her, taking her skin and her rumpled state, earned while helping extract Watson and himself from a scuffle, as evidence of her being a companion for hire. Young, attractive, and unprotected, Sherlock gave thanks that Enola had alternated between dressing as a boy and as a woman who could have every constable in the borough after her potential assailant.)_

He managed to answer his hostess with only a brief pause. “Yes, part of my reason for coming here was to thank you for that.”

Lady Tewksbury made a non-committal humming sound, sipping her tea and nibbling on a biscuit. Sherlock helped himself to one, savouring the subtle mix of spices. Mary’s inheritance had included a good quantity of spices, which she used sparingly when she felt like baking.

Lord Tewksbury’s mother smiled fondly. “Enola enjoys those, too, when she accepts my standing invitation for tea. Your note didn’t say which Detective Holmes I should expect, so I had my cook make them, just in case.”

Enola had tea with a near-stranger, frequently enough to have established her favourite tea menu, but couldn’t send her brother so much as a note? At least it meant Lady Tewksbury was aware of her true identity, and he didn’t need to mess around with the ‘assistant’ cover. “I’m glad to hear it. There’s quite an age gap between us, you see; I left for University not long after she was born, and stayed in London to begin my career. We’ve only recently reconnected.”

A raised eyebrow suggested that the Lady didn’t believe his pretty wording for a moment. “Enola and my son mentioned that, too. She wondered if you’d be half so attentive if her other brother hadn’t been so apathetic, giving you another chance to show him up.”

At this rate, Sherlock was going to have to make a list of the women who thought him a poor excuse for a brother and a gentleman. Lady Tewksbury’s expression was just like Mrs Lane and Edith, with a hint of that dressmaker-landlady’s total unrepentance for her words and actions when Sherlock questioned her after she came to collect the reward money. The worst part was that she might well be correct; Sherlock had never been able to resist showing Mycroft up, and it hadn’t been hard to contrast himself as the ‘nice’ brother.

But he’d told Enola that he cared about her! Sherlock was (in)famous for not mincing or softening his words, for telling the unvarnished truth. He’d taken a day out of his extremely busy schedule to see how she was faring, and spoken to her one detective to another. How could Enola believe him insincere?

Lady Tewksbury sighed in exasperation. “I am reminded of when Edward was struggling with lessons and had to be reminded that not everything could be compared to his beloved plants. What part of this are you having trouble comprehending?”

It took a moment to remember that Edward was the late Lord Tewksbury’s name, doubtless passed on to his son. Sherlock disliked admitting flaws, but if Tewksbury and Enola were as close as rumour claimed, he might as well get used to having Lady Caroline around now. “I spend a lot of time analysing people. How they think, how they react. Outside of a case, when it isn’t connected to a crime… it’s harder. I looked for Enola, I told her I cared about her. I don’t see why she didn’t believe me.”

Well-bred ladies did not roll their eyes, which was probably the only reason Lady Tewksbury refrained from doing so. “Of course you don’t. Men never can, because it’s rarely something they have to worry about.”

She selected another biscuit and took a thoughtful bite. “Give me a moment, I’m trying to phrase this in a way you’ll understand.”

Sherlock forced himself to be patient, looking around the room. A lady’s workbasket held the front panels of a vest, partially embroidered, and the pieces for a warm winter capelet. Equally possible to be a gift for Enola, or for young Lord Tewksbury, and Sherlock knew better than to try and ask.

Finally, Lady Tewksbury sighed. “When you visited Enola, you saw that she was miserable, and that very little of the things taught there would be of any use to her. You acknowledged her desire to be a detective, yet you still left her there, ignoring what she wanted in favour of your own convenience.”

Phrased like that, it certainly sounded bad. He'd pointed out how calligraphy and deportment could be useful, though he was a bit vague on what else a young woman would be taught. “Enola is resourceful, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d orchestrated an escape.”

Lady Tewksbury’s raised eyebrow was very much like Mother’s, when Sherlock had been a mischievous boy. He fell silent, suppressing the urge to apologise for interrupting. The eyebrow lowered, “But where would she go, without a disguise, or money, or a place to stay? A young man running away from school has any number of ways to earn a living. A young girl’s options are far more limited.”

Yes, and that was already going to keep Sherlock awake for many nights to come, thank you. He let the Lady continue. “You’ve never been without money. The allowance from your father, then from your brother, then from your profession as a famous detective. Women don’t have that luxury. Unless they’re a widow with a trade, we’re expected to let our husbands or brothers or sons manage our finances, even if they wouldn’t have the first clue about finances. Money can mean freedom, or a cage, depending on who controls it.”

Mother had been forced to come up with all kinds of expenses for Mycroft to send her more than the pin-money she’d had from father, who had never questioned her spending unless it was a very large sum. Sherlock had based his investigation on calculations of how far Enola’s money would stretch before it ran out, and she’d still had a surprising amount before Mycroft confiscated it. The few hundred pounds had allowed Enola to make her own choices, but when it was taken away… perhaps Enola had been justified in her anger at him.

Lady Tewksbury studied him, then nodded, rising to her feet. “You’re willing to learn, at least. If you continue to improve, I’ll ask Enola’s permission to keep you updated.”

Enola’s permission? Lady Tewksbury outranked Sherlock’s sister in age, experience and social standing… but that kind of thinking was exactly what had lead to the current situation. If he wanted to see his sister again in this lifetime, it was an attitude that he would have to leave to Mycroft. “Thank you, Lady Tewksbury. I appreciate the assistance you’ve given.”

She met his eyes squarely. “I lost my family at a young age. If the late Lord Tewksbury and I hadn’t already been betrothed, my life could have ended very differently. Enola has the wit and talent to take care of herself, but I’ll spare her what heartache I can.”

Sherlock acknowledged the point, and Lady Tewksbury rang for a footman to escort him out. “One other thing, Mr Holmes.” She waited until he looked at her. “I have contacts all over the British Commonwealth. You’re being given a second chance. Betray it, and I’ll help Enola vanish so thoroughly that you will never find her.”

Sherlock had no shortage of enemies, but he didn’t think he’d been threatened nearly as often by even Moriarty as by the numerous women who’d appointed themselves as Enola’s personal defence squadron.

It wouldn’t do to say as much, however. He inclined his head. “Good day, Lady Tewksbury. Please extend my compliments to your son, should you see him before I do.”

* * *

Returning to Baker Street, Sherlock found Watson and Mary giggling over the Personels again. "She's written back?"

Mary handed him the paper, not even bothering to stifle her broad grin. Sherlock quickly found the relevant ad. "Dear Shirley: What on earth do either of them see in you?"

Along with the list of women who threatened him, Sherlock was going to have to stark keeping a scorecard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It probably sounds like I'm being hard on Sherlock, and I am a bit, but there is still a lot he doesn't understand, by virtue of being a man of independent means.  
> Lady Tewksbury is doing her best to bond with Enola now, so that in the event Tewksbury does propose, her future mother-in-law won't be a reason for Enola to run screaming. Miss Harrison gave one impression of what a Society Lady should be (Finishing School teachers were often impoverished gentlewomen), now Lady Tewksbury is giving Sherlock another point of view.


	3. Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is getting closer, but he isn't there yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just started a new job, so updates may be slower while I settle in.  
> If you want to read my original work to keep you going, you can fine me on Amazon under the pen-name Natasja Rose.

Sherlock stopped briefly at the paper to place a response in the personels, somewhat enjoying the banter with Enola, even if he’d prefer it to be at less of a distance. _‘Dear May Beatrice Posy: Much the same as your young man sees in you, I believe.’_

If it didn’t provoke Enola to respond in person, perhaps young Tewksbury might stop avoiding him long enough to express his annoyance at being subjected to Enola’s subsequent rant about Sherlock’s presumption.

In a much better, if still contemplative, mood, Sherlock spent a few hours walking around the trade and middle-class districts, before returning to Baker Street.

* * *

Watson was writing a letter, perhaps consulting on a medical case, or corresponding with a few army pals. He did that frequently, especially with those who had been recently invalidated out. Leaning down to kiss his lover briefly on the cheek – Sherlock could be sentimental on occasion! – he looked around. “Mary is out?”

Watson nodded. “She received an invitation to tea. The place with the dojo above it; I decided it might be better for me to stay here, just in case.”

Edith had promised to render Sherlock incapable of telling anyone anything, through any means of communication, if Sherlock showed his face in the teashop again.

While he was a skilled fighter, Sherlock wasn’t willing to chance his odds of a dojo full of trained women who were taught to fight dirty. Especially not when all of them had very personal motivation to reduce him to a smear on the falling mats. Besides, being unable to write or talk for weeks or months would be terribly inconvenient, and there were far too many ways for Edith and her students to accomplish such a thing.

Watson was too closely associated with Sherlock; he had probably been wise to keep his distance.

Sherlock chose not to voice his opinions on that subject, just in case. Watson smirked, perfectly aware of what he was thinking anyway. “I didn’t ask yesterday, but how went your visit with Lady Tewksbury?”

Sherlock tried not to grimace, still smarting a little from the polite dressing down. “Not as productive as I’d hoped, though she was good enough to explain a few things to me. I’m going to need to start a list to keep track of all the woman who’ve called me an ignorant, neglectful prat in the last few weeks.”

Watson tried to look sympathetic, and didn’t quite succeed. “I hate to say it, but it may do you some good to struggle for answers every so often.”

Sherlock had heard a good deal too many opinions on that subject too. “Yes, but it’s Enola! I’d prefer to struggle when there’s less at stake!”

Watson raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Less at stake than a dead body or a kidnapping?”

Normally Sherlock was the literal one. He waved a hand, “You know what I mean! In a case, it’s already happened, and if I’m not available then Scotland Yard’s Inspectors have to actually earn their pay for once. It isn’t the same!”

Of course, that was the exact moment that Mary chose to return. “In that case, you’ll be pleased to know that Enola is alive and well, and still on excellent terms with Viscount Tewksbury.”

The second piece of news was far less welcome than the first. Despite his quip to Mycroft, Enola was still only sixteen, and Viscount Tewksbury only a year or so older barely old enough to take his seat. Girls had been married younger, of course, but Sherlock would sleep better if Enola waited a year or so before doing anything irrevocable. He put that aside for the moment, “You’ve seen her?”

Mary nodded, “Young Lord Tewksbury invited me as a chaperone, though he didn’t say so until I arrived. I thought he invited me as a go-between to tell you to stop hounding the boy.”

Sherlock put that aside, too. “At least tell me that she’s safe and happy.”

Mary smiled fondly. “Quite. She’s been crime-solving. Mostly word of mouth, but I shouldn’t be surprised if she becomes well-known in her own right.”

There was another way to track Enola down. “What kind of cases?”

His almost-wife raised a knowing eyebrow. “Not the kind that makes the papers, so you can put that out of her mind. The kind that need a Lady Detective, with an emphasis on the ‘lady’. The kind that would never come to you, because you wouldn’t understand the result they needed.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly.

He wasn't used to being informed of his lack of understanding, and Mary was the fifth woman to have called him ignorant in a month, while being utterly unhelpful in locating his wayward sister. Sixth, if you counted Enola herself, which Sherlock did not. His little sister had been speaking from a place of anger and hurt, her words thus to be taken with a grain of salt.

Enola, and the numerous other women, were not entirely wrong, but anger, even cold anger, made for hasty words and limited perspective. Lady Tewksbury had been right, there was a perspective to the world that Sherlock did not understand. That didn’t mean he couldn’t learn. “Has Enola said anything about letting me contact her.”

Watson smirked and took a breath to say something. Sherlock cut him off, “Outside of coded messages in the Personals section.”

Mary exchanged amused looks with her actual husband. “If you’re desperate, you can send a message via Viscount Tewksbury. Only you’re to stop being so obvious about it; the other Lords are starting to notice, and you’ll hurt his standing if they think he’s a philanderer.”

Viscount Tewksbury was starting to be annoying. “I thought he had more of a backbone to send messages through you.”

Mary smirked. “Oh, no, that was straight from Enola’s lips. She also says that she’ll propose when she’s good and ready, and not before, so Mycroft can stick that idea up his… stovepipe.”

Watson laughed, and even Sherlock couldn’t restrain a smile. At least he wasn’t the only brother Enola was annoyed with. “Did Tewksbury have anything to say?”

Halfway through pouring herself a cup of coffee, Mary looked almost fond. “Only that the House of Lords gossips worse than schoolgirls, so please make your apology letter brief enough to pass off as a note from Mycroft. Oh, and that he’s enjoying watching the sparring match between you.”

Despite the frustration it provoked, Sherlock was, too. He hoped that Enola enjoyed tomorrow’s edition.

* * *

Two days later, he received a reply. ‘ _To Shirley: I rather doubt that, you’re far too reserved. A pity you can’t come and discuss it in person_.”

Watson and Mary had been enjoying a lie-in. They came tumbling out of their room, only half-dressed and two-thirds awake, at the sound of Sherlock shouting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, Enola is referring to her sharp tongue and the verbal sparring between her and Tewksbury.  
> She's also very aware of exactly where Sherlock's mind will go first, and cheerfully anticipating his reaction. Lady Tewksbury has also been following the Personals back-and-forth since Enola and Tewksbury told her about it, and spluttered her breakfast tea laughing.


	4. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-anticipated meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the smartest people are the ones who most need to be beaten over the head with facts and have things explained in small words...

Sherlock avoided putting anything in the personals for the next few days, trying to give Enola the space she wanted. That lasted until complaint letters started to appear. Apparently, Lestrade and young Lord Tewksbury weren’t the only ones enjoying the byplay; random people Sherlock had never heard of clearly had very boring lives and were far too invested in the perceived scandal between the siblings, friends or cousins (opinions differed wildly as to the exact degree of relation) May Beatrice Posy and Shirley of no known last name.

Watson’s breakfast tea nearly came back out his nose, and Sherlock waited patiently for him to finish attempting to laugh and cough at the same time. Mary, who was rather less of a morning person than either of her husbands, took a little longer for the messages to sink in. She blinked, a slow smile spreading across her face. “People are actually betting with their neighbours over this? Oh, dear.”

Sherlock lowered his section of the paper long enough to shoot her an arch look. “Don’t pretend that you aren’t enjoying it just as much.”

Mary laughed, “Oh, I won’t deny that. I’m just wondering if you should keep it up. It seems unfair to deprive half of London of their morning entertainment.”

Sherlock reminded himself that he’d known what he was getting into when he agreed to expand his and Watson’s relationship to include Mary, so he could hardly complain about it now. “It has been rather enjoyable. I’ll come up with something suitably outraged and have one of the Bow Street Runners take it to the news office.”

Watson smiled softly, passing Sherlock another sheet of the newspaper. “Wait until after you’ve read this story. Your baby sister is making a name for herself.”

Sherlock managed not to snatch the paper out of Watson’s hand, scanning for the story in question. It wasn’t a headline, barely an eighth of a page, buried mid-way through the paper, but it was impressive. A man, Mr Younge, deeply in debt, who murdered his wife to gain the inheritance from a liberal-minded rich aunt that the wife very publicly refused to let him control while she lived.

With her death, the money would go to her children, to be managed by their surviving parent. Said children were now going abroad to live with relatives. The case had been investigated and solved by Miss Enola Holmes.

He vaguely remembered the story, which had been making the rounds through the scandal sheets, mostly because Mary had been grumbling about the test of the Married Women’s Property Act, and how the courts were falling short of actually enforcing it. He thought back to the details, matching them against the ones in the news story. He put down the paper. “She’s made a mistake. The wife isn’t dead.”

Rather than react with shock, Mary sighed expressively. “You’re making the same mistake that you did with Miss Adler, you realise.”

Another reminder that the thought process of women was the one mystery that Sherlock would probably never solve. “Perhaps you could elaborate?”

Mary put down her coffee cup, meeting his eyes squarely. “You underestimated her, because she was a woman, passing herself off as a member of society, and you were used to dealing with thwarted men of Learning, scorned lovers, angry husbands or fathers or brothers. You didn’t take her seriously as an opponent until she’d already run rings around you, and now you’re doing the same with Enola.”

This was turning out to be a month of unpleasant truths, indeed. “How so?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re assuming that she made a mistake, and that her focus is the same as yours; solving mysteries for the sake of it.”

Oh, joy, another round of having his blind spots explained to him. It felt like being back in school. “Then what is her focus?”

Watson raised an eyebrow. “Speaking from the perspective of one who’s seen a lot of the world and knows that the law doesn’t always operate and protect as it should… I’d say she’s seeking justice, as well as solving the puzzle.”

Sherlock didn’t like when people talked around subjects when he wasn’t on a case; it was one reason why he’d avoided following Mycroft into Politics. Well, perhaps Enola would be willing to speak plainly. “Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I should stop by the news office.”

It was a long enough walk that Sherlock could compose and refine his next message in the Personals. _‘To May Beatrice Posy: Your last message nearly sent me to the fainting-couch – well played. I feel that we should speak in person about matters concerning our recent activities.’_

* * *

Enola’s reply came the next day, about an hour before the Tewksbury carriage pulled up outside 221 Baker Street. _‘To Shirley: We should, but it will require you pulling your head out of your posterior’._

Young Lord Tewksbury, waiting in the carriage, was doing a bad job of hiding his amusement. “Mother reads the Personals over breakfast. She thought you might like to borrow the carriage.”

* * *

Tewksbury took him to a teashop, not far from the Tewksbury townhouse. In a quiet corner, a well-dressed young lady in half-mourning sat, immersed in a book. It wasn’t until she looked up that Sherlock recognised his sister’s steely eyes. “Sherlock.”

He bowed slightly, as he would to any other young lady. “Enola. You’ve been busy.”

She closed the book, a recent publication on the latest development in forensics. “I take it you disagree with the results of my case?”

Sherlock sat down, deciding against ordering tea when he spotted Edith’s familiar visage among the serving staff. Clearly, whatever mystery was behind Enola’s case was serious enough for his little sister to take precautions. Tewksbury and his mother joined them, Lady Tewksbury ordering high tea for the table.

They exchanged pleasantries long enough for Edith to retreat out of immediate striking range. Sherlock warily tasted his tea for any unfortunate additives. “It was explained to me that I might be looking at things from the wrong angle.”

Young Lord Tewksbury chimed in, “And that you would seem rather a cad for simply announcing to all of London that you disagreed with her findings.”

Enola smiled warmly at him, running a finger across the back of his hand, and Sherlock bit back the caustic rebuttal he had been about to make. “Indeed. Perhaps you could explain so that I don’t inadvertently get in your way, in the future?”

Enola exchanged glances with the Dowager Lady Tewksbury, who inclined her head slightly. “What do you know of the case?”

The main facts had been obvious, but clearly there was some detail that Sherlock was missing. “The husband was deeply in debt, his wife refused to let him squander her inheritance as he did her dowery, and he tried to kill her to gain control of her money. The description of the body doesn’t match up to the description of the woman, however, though it’s very close.”

Enola raised an eyebrow, a perfect imitation of their mother when Sherlock was pushing his limits and about to be sent to bed without supper. “How so?”

Sherlock listed off the details, more comfortable with facts than social niceties. “Her hair showed marks of being dyed blond, not natural, there was about an inch difference in height, and her hands bore the callouses of a working woman, not a middle-class housewife. In addition, the shape of her left leg implied a profound limp, which Mrs Younge did not have. I asked to examine the body by way of practice to be sure, I didn’t mention you.”

Enola sat back with a huff. “Well, you’re right about that part. He did try to kill her – a maid struck him over the head with a fire iron before he succeeded in beating her to death – but the body belongs to a prostitute killed by a jealous lover.”

Well, Sherlock could hardly fault the woman for running away. “But why not seek a divorce? The Married Women’s Property Act confirms her property as hers, after all.”

From the collective glances exchanged by Enola, the Dowager Lady Tewksbury, Edith and most of the serving staff, Sherlock had managed to miss some notable intricacy of female life. Again. Lord Tewksbury spoke with a slightly delicate air. “The Married Women’s Property Act is still young, with a number of loopholes that won’t be closed until judgements are made on at least a dozen cases currently waiting to appear before the courts. Not the least of which is that it only applies to money or goods up to two hundred pounds.”

The political machine was entirely too slow for Sherlock to bother with when a case wasn’t involved. “Attempted murder still counts as reasonable grounds for divorce, even if it would take time to go through.”

Perhaps a minor interest in politics, at least as much as was in the papers, should become part of Sherlock’s routine, if he wanted to cease being on the receiving end of such judgemental looks from the female half of the population.

Enola fixed him with a harsh glare. “Outside of actually killing her, a husband or guardian can do very nearly anything to a woman. Beating, restricting her movements, Bedlam… Divorce can be fought, and Judges favour the man in the custody and settlement far more often than they should.”

The pieces re-arranged themselves in Sherlock’s mind.

The Women’s Liberation Movement, in which Edith was prominent, had members all over London, easily capable of claiming a body meant for anatomy students or a pauper’s grave. Lady Tewksbury had told him clearly that she could help someone disappear, and the Younge children were being sent to live with ‘relatives abroad’. Enola’s solving of the Case of the Missing Marquis, as the papers called it, had given her just enough fame that as long as the ruse went undiscovered, no-one would question her results.  
_(Those who would, such as Lestrade, would be those who knew the limits of the law, and had enough morals not to risk innocent lives.)_

Mary had emphasised that Enola was taking cases suited to a ‘Lady Detective, with emphasis on the Lady’, and Sherlock was starting to get an idea of the alternate meanings of such a phrase. Watson had pointed out that Enola sought Justice, not the satisfaction of a mystery solved. This was far more than just a potential blight on his sister’s professional reputation.

Edith had a teapot in her hands, holding it in a family grip, as did at least one serving maid, and the rest of the teashop were very carefully not noticing anything.

Enola was looking at him with the same accusing expectation she had worn at Miss Harrington’s. Now as then, good intentions held far less meaning than the results of his actions. “Well, such details as Mrs Younge’s occupation prior to marriage would hardly be reported in a story, and as her husband was proved a violent man, a limp is entirely plausible.”

His company relaxed perceptively. Dowager Lady Tewksbury nodded. “Good. Now keep that attitude in mind should anyone ask you about it.”

Sherlock dignified his acknowledgement of the obvious with a slight inclination of his head, and Enola poured Lord Tewksbury a fresh cup of tea, “How go your current attempts at reform?”

Tewksbury grinned, a surprisingly boyish look on him as he stealthily offered Enola a tiny pot of jam out of his pocket. Lingonberry, a Scandanavian berry that was both tart and sweet, and nearly impossible to get in a teahouse. “Your brothers have actually been a tremendous help, if an unintentional one. They’ve thwarted or annoyed enough people that any proposal of mine that so clearly inconveniences them must be worth considering.”

Enola laughed, accepting the jam pot and spreading it over her scone. “You do have a wonderful mind, Viscount.”

The same kind of cunning practicality that Sherlock found so attractive in Mary, as a matter of fact. Enola's tone was almost a flirtatious purr, too, clearly influenced by Tewksbury's ability to procure unique flavours. Drat and damnation!

Likely nothing would come of it until they were both more firmly established in their adult lives, but Sherlock suddenly had all new reasons to be concerned about his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working my way through the book series, so I apologise if I get details wrong.  
> I'm not sure if I'll make this my final chapter of the story, or do an epilogue or a part two set a few years later. If you have opinions on the matter, I'd love to hear them!

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is likely to be multi-chapter. If there is anything you absolutely need to see, mention it in the comments.


End file.
